"A new city, a new life, a new adventure", I believe I said. But two weeks living in Glasgow, back in the rain, back in reality, and that precious care-free bubble I found myself living in over the last 6 months is close to breaking point. So time to get writing once again and what better way to gain some perspective and shake off this feeling than titling each post with a reason the UK isn't the worst place to be and that there are more important things in the world, like finding me a job and getting me a social life.
Last week I decided to go out and make some friends, to hopefully take the edge off the English loser in Glasgow I could see myself becoming. So I joined the gym. And when the 15 year old we-wear-a-full-face-of-make-up-and-matching-pink-velour-tracksuits-to-the-gym girls accompanying me in the induction didn't take to kindly to my no brand, SportsWorld gear and the utterly disgusting fact that I was there to sweat, I didn't panic but instead looked forward to the bright eyes and friendly faces of the ladies I would meet in my first Zumba class. However, thirty seconds into the class and the realisation dawns on me that I despise Zumba. It's a bold statement, and I know there are some of you tutting in protest and shaking your heads as you read this but it's true, I hate Zumba. The only way I could have been more uncomfortable is if I was naked.
But even if I'd been having a blast and fancied a bit of banter with the ladies next to me with the secret hope of potential friendship, they wouldn't have heard a word I'd said as the instructor was a yeller. A keen-o. The worst kind of gym instructor there is. The kind that sings along to every song, into her microphone nonetheless, regardless of pitch and key and the kind that demands each member of the class enthusiastically yells and screams to prove we are having a good time. Which I was not.
So the gym is proving a no go for friends, but on the bright side I'm finally shaking off all those months of pastries, macaroons and every hour being bread o'clock.
But even if I'd been having a blast and fancied a bit of banter with the ladies next to me with the secret hope of potential friendship, they wouldn't have heard a word I'd said as the instructor was a yeller. A keen-o. The worst kind of gym instructor there is. The kind that sings along to every song, into her microphone nonetheless, regardless of pitch and key and the kind that demands each member of the class enthusiastically yells and screams to prove we are having a good time. Which I was not.
So the gym is proving a no go for friends, but on the bright side I'm finally shaking off all those months of pastries, macaroons and every hour being bread o'clock.
However, next stop an open casting for Zombie extras in the next Brad Pitt film, surely someone will like the look of me there..
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